Page 97 of Bitten, Marked, Obsessed

“You’re not running again, are you?”

I glance at him. “Would you chase me?”

He grins, but there’s no heat behind it. “Every time.”

I nod and turn back to the trail.

Dad’s blood scent is faint now, but the sigils are showing up more often—scratched into trees, burned into stone, even smeared in what might be blood on the side of an abandoned delivery truck we pass by the tracks.

“This is old magic,” one of the wolves mutters. A guy named Ridge, all jaw and nerves. “I thought the Brood didn’t mess with this kind of shit.”

“They don’t,” Callum says. “Not unless they’re desperate.”

We’re all desperate now.

The farther we go, the darker it gets—even though the sun’s still high. The light here feels dimmer. Thinner. Like something’s sucking it out of the air. That’s when it happens.

The first one hits hard.

A flash—sudden and hot, like lightning behind my eyes.

I stumble.

“Kendall?” Callum’s already at my side, grabbing my arm.

“I’m fine,” I lie. “I just?—”

But the second one slams in before I can finish.

I don’t remember stumbling, not really.

One second I’m upright, eyes fixed on the trail, and the next I’m grabbing onto the moss-slick bark of a tree, my knees going weak like someone just unplugged me from the earth.

Everything pulses—like my heart’s beating somewhereoutsideof my body.

“Kendall?” Callum’s voice cuts through the fog, but I can’t look at him. I can’t even see straight.

Because something else is crowding into my vision. Like a second world overlaying this one.

A long corridor—circular and alive, made of stone that breathes with every step. Roots slither across the ceiling like veins. Carvings twist and move when I try to focus. The walls are whispering in a language I’ve never heard but somehowunderstand.

And at the end of the corridor is a door.

Bone. Ash. Blood. Etched with my name.

Kendall.It doesn’t shout. It doesn’t beg. Itsummons.

I gasp, collapsing to one knee.

“Fuck—Kendall!” Callum’s arms are around me before I hit the ground fully.

“Don’t—” I whisper. “Don’t pull me out. It’sshowing me something.”

I hear movement behind us—boots crunching leaves, claws half-drawn.

“What’s happening to her?” Ridge growls.

“She’s not attacked,” Callum says. “She’schanneling.”

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